


Bio-Hazard

by zombified_queer



Category: Smile For Me (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Implied Character Death, POV Second Person, dental horror, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26135665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: Sometimes, you try your best and you still fuck it up. Good thing you saved. You...did save, didn't you?[Originally posted for sfmweek 2020.]
Kudos: 9





	Bio-Hazard

The guy’s some kind of weapon alright. Doctor Habit is leering at your mouth, which feels more like a wound. Sticky-hot blood pours over your tongue and clots in your throat like a roll of pennies pressed into a neat paper tube.

Turn your head. Try to spit.

A blood clot that has to be the size of a lemon slides past your numb lips.

Guy’s a weapon like pliers are a weapon. Or a wrench.

“U get it, dom’t u?”

His voice is a weapon the way music cranked up when you’ve got a migraine is a weapon.

You don’t get it until his lips curl back in a smile. He’s got a mouth like a lamprey. Like a leech.

All those teeth keep his jaw propped open. Wrenched open. 

Like a weapon.

And he’s growing more teeth while you watch. They sprout so white and perfect they gleam blue. You’re not sure why he doesn’t react.

Or how he can breathe around all those teeth.

Bones crack under the weight of so many teeth. You’re not sure what’ll give first. More teeth sprout up all the time. Points of enamel. Weapons like razor blades are weapons.

His lower jaw sloughs off. It lands on the tile, teeth rattling against tile. Like pennies scraping on a chalkboard.

How does a leech eat with no jaws? Habit lurches forward like that ring of teeth might latch onto your throat. Are there lampreys in Wyoming?

Out of his throat, that black hole in his face, pours more teeth. Perfect teeth. Aligned in their razor rows. Leech teeth. Lamprey throat.

Like weapons. Hundreds of them.

Under his skin are lumps. Points of enamel push through green so easy and without blood. Blue-white, all of them.

Teeth. Hundreds of them. His skin peels back, rips apart. Like sepals.

Hundreds of teeth in bloom. Petals opened to the sun. Planted in perfect rows along Doctor Habit’s cheekbones and along his nose and over his forehead. 

Throat to hairline is covered in tiny white enamel blossoms. Like meadowsweets or Indian paintbrushes. 

Like cactus spines and like weapons.

“Good-nite, Flowmer Brat.”


End file.
